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“The young woman bent down and kissed him, and
then she allowed me to help her to my cot. When
I had attended to the young man, and he had regained
strength enough to stand upon his feet, she was asleep.
The man went to her, and dropped upon his knees beside
the cot. Tenderly he drew back the heavy masses
of hair from about her face and shoulders. For
several minutes he remained with his face pressed close
against hers; then he rose, and faced me. The
woman—­his wife—­knew nothing of
what passed between us during the next half-hour.
During that half-hour gentlemen, I received my first
confession. The young man was of my faith.
He was my first penitent.”

It was growing colder in the coach, and Father Charles
stopped to draw his thin black coat closer to him.
Forsythe relighted his cigar for the third time.
The transient passenger gave a sudden start as a gust
of wind beat against the window like a threatening
hand.

“A rough stool was my confessional, gentlemen,”
resumed Father Charles. “He told me the
story, kneeling at my feet—­a story that
will live with me as long as I live, always reminding
me that the little things of life may be the greatest
things, that by sending a storm to hold up a coach
the Supreme Arbiter may change the map of the world.
It is not a long story. It is not even an unusual
story.

“He had come into the North about a year before,
and had built for himself and his wife a little home
at a pleasant river spot ten miles distant from my
cabin. Their love was of the kind we do not often
see, and they were as happy as the birds that lived
about them in the wilderness. They had taken
a timber claim. A few months more, and a new
life was to come into their little home; and the knowledge
of this made the girl an angel of beauty and joy.
Their nearest neighbor was another man, several miles
distant. The two men became friends, and the other
came over to see them frequently. It was the old,
old story. The neighbor fell in love with the
young settler’s wife.

“As you shall see, this other man was a beast.
On the day preceding the night of the terrible storm,
the woman’s husband set out for the settlement
to bring back supplies. Hardly had he gone, when
the beast came to the cabin. He found himself
alone with the woman.

“A mile from his cabin, the husband stopped
to light his pipe. See, gentlemen, how the Supreme
Arbiter played His hand. The man attempted to
unscrew the stem, and the stem broke. In the wilderness
you must smoke. Smoke is your company. It
is voice and companionship to you. There were
other pipes at the settlement, ten miles away; but
there was also another pipe at the cabin, one mile
away. So the husband turned back. He came
up quietly to his door, thinking that he would surprise
his wife. He heard voices—­a man’s
voice, a woman’s cries. He opened the door,
and in the excitement of what was happening within
neither the man nor the woman saw nor heard him.
They were struggling. The woman was in the man’s
arms, her hair torn down, her small hands beating
him in the face, her breath coming in low, terrified
cries. Even as the husband stood there for the
fraction of a second, taking in the terrible scene,
the other man caught the woman’s face to him,
and kissed her. And then—­it happened.